


Grass Angels and Whiskey

by ohmarqueliot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Frottage, M/M, set during Quentin's first year, this was supposed to be smut but now there's also feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 11:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmarqueliot/pseuds/ohmarqueliot
Summary: Quentin and Eliot come home from a party, drunk. The couch just looks so comfortable, particularly when Eliot is splayed across it...Set sometime during Quentin's first year.





	Grass Angels and Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as drunken smut but then it expanded into drunken pre-shenanigans and post-feelings.
> 
> Don't know if this counts as mature or explicit so tagging higher to be safe.
> 
> Julia is peripherally there because I said so.

 

The cold, quiet night was a strange contrast to the wild party that the Illusionists had thrown. Or would have been, if Quentin could focus on anything further than four feet in front of him. Eliot’s arm was slung around his neck but Quentin leaned into him just as heavily, the two of them somehow holding each other up as they stumbled toward the Physical cottage, moving by habit rather than any real thought to where they were going.

Caught with the worry that maybe they weren’t actually going in the right direction, Quentin looked up from the grass in front of his feet and squinted into the darkness. He wasn’t expecting the darkness to move but somehow it did, warping before him and he stumbled into Eliot, causing the two of them to veer sideways.

“No, that way,” Eliot mumbled, his arm shifting around him and Quentin realised that he was trying to point with the hand thrown around his shoulders. His movement pulled him closer but Quentin twisted the other way to try and see where his hand was pointing. Eliot’s hand gripped him tighter, holding him still but Quentin’s head kept moving, or at least his vision did, but then somehow he was looking straight ahead again.

 _“Shit,”_ he said as they walked forward. He blinked at the sight of his breath frosting in the air. It didn’t feel that cold. In fact, he felt warm and fuzzy… but maybe that was the shit-ton of alcohol he’d drunk warming his blood. Breathing in deeply, he exhaled, ever amused by the way his breath formed before him.

Eliot was fumbling with something in his pocket, and eventually he pulled out a cigarette case. “Here.”

“No, I just – okay.” He hadn’t really smoked in a while, but he liked that Eliot was offering, even if he’d misunderstood his fascination. He still couldn’t really understand why he and Margo had pulled him into their little group, but he was happier here, with them, at Brakebills, than he’d been for a very long time.

He certainly couldn’t remember the last time he’d stayed until the end of a party because he hadn’t wanted to leave.

Alice had bailed early, and Margo and Julia at sometime around three. He had no real idea of how long ago that was, but he remembered seeing that time on the clock on the wall not long before they’d left. Unless that hadn’t been real. Who the fuck knew with Illusionists. He and Eliot had stayed a while after the music had been turned off. Eliot had been determined to stay until the scotch was all gone, and Quentin had been trying to get a second year to teach him the spell that had been the highlight of the night.

A motherfucking dragon.

Not a real dragon, but it looked like a real fucking dragon. It had shimmered around his fingers when he’d reached out to touch it, but steadied a moment later and continued to terrorise its way through the common room. It had taken him most of the night to convince the older student to teach him the trick, and the rest of the night to admit failure. Was it because he hadn’t really done anything with illusions yet? Maybe it was just because he was drunk. Maybe he could find her tomorrow and get her to try and teach him again.

“I want a dragon,” he said around the cigarette held between his lips.

“Fuck!”

Jumping slightly, he turned his head to look up at Eliot, squinting to try and get his eyes to focus. What was so bad about wanting a dragon? But Eliot wasn’t even paying attention to him, staring instead at his hand as he tried and failed to conjure a flame. He tried again, and Quentin could see where he was going wrong – the roll of his fingers was completely off, his fingers barely moving. He opened his mouth to tell him so but Eliot had apparently realised himself, except he entirely overcompensated this time, his whole hand turning before he twisted his wrist up and a wide burst of fire erupted from his hand.

Quentin jumped backwards, alarmed, and then something wet and cold hit hard against his back. Stretching his arms out on either side of him, he realised that the wetness was grass between his fingers, and slowly turned his head to look across the grounds, which looked a bit more sideways than it should have. He was on the ground. “What…?” How the hell had he ended up on the ground?

There was silence for a moment, and then he heard a snort that quickly dissolved into laughter on his other side and remembered Eliot. Turning his head, he looked up at Eliot, who stood a few feet away from him and seemed to still have his eyebrows. Whatever expression was on Quentin’s face must have been hilarious, because when he looked down at him he burst out laughing again, doubling over with his hands on his knees. “You look… you look like… like you’re trying to do a snow angel,” he managed. “A grass angel!”

Quentin moved his arms up and down through the wet grass and was rewarded with more laughter from Eliot. Wiping his eyes, Eliot walked over and held his hands out, and Quentin grinned as he reached up to take them. Eliot pulled him to his feet but his momentum kept him moving forward, and they both stumbled a few steps as they tried not to fall over in the opposite direction. He grabbed Eliot’s forearms as Eliot’s hands closed around his, and somehow through their laughter they managed to keep themselves upright.

They were both still laughing when they reached the cottage. Most of the lights were off so Quentin paused with his hand on the front door, turning back to Eliot. He swayed on his feet slightly, his hair dishevelled, a cigarette tucked behind his left ear and Quentin realised belatedly that he’d lost his when he’d fallen on the grass. Slowly, he raised his hand and pressed a finger against Eliot’s lips. “Shh,” he said, somehow keeping his face deadly serious until Eliot’s eyes widened and then the two of them erupted into another fit of giggles.

Eventually they quietened enough to attempt the door again. The common room was empty, the only light coming from the few dim lamps around the room that usually stayed on overnight when people were out partying. Eliot walked ahead of him into the room, picking up a bottle of whiskey with an appreciative hum and taking a mouthful straight from the bottle, half falling onto the couch behind him as he did so.

That couch was so comfortable, and suddenly Quentin didn’t want to be anywhere else. Eliot shifted so that he was leaning his head and shoulders against the armrest, his body stretched out along the seat, and Quentin pulled up his legs so he could sit beneath them. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, then, so he put them on Eliot’s knees. Eliot relaxed with a sigh, his eyes sliding closed peacefully before he screwed his face up with a groan. “Bed,” he mumbled reluctantly.

 _No_ , he thought automatically. He didn’t want the night to end yet. He was having fun, he was _happy_ and floaty and warm, and so comfortable and fuzzy here with Eliot. “Drink,” he said instead, reaching over to take the bottle from where it was cradled against Eliot’s chest.

Eliot moved far too quickly than someone who was drunk and half asleep had any right to, holding the bottle back over his shoulder and out of Quentin’s reach, opening his eyes and squinting up at him with a grin. “No, you’re cut off,” he said teasingly.

“Cut… nope.” He leaned over, trying to get to the whiskey, but Eliot brought his legs up, blocking his way and forcing him backwards. Giving up on the whiskey for a moment, he grabbed Eliot’s legs, trying to push them back but his right one had come up too far to manoeuvre back without moving off of him, so Quentin pushed it to the other side. The way suddenly clear, Quentin surged bodily forward, leaning on Eliot’s shoulder with one hand to steady himself while he reached for the whiskey with the other. Moving a little too zealously, his knees slipped on the couch and he lost his grip on Eliot’s shoulder, falling down against him. He could feel Eliot’s chest moving underneath his as they both laughed, both gasped for breath, and he knew they were being too loud but he didn’t care – he felt _good_ , and he was _not_ letting Eliot win this.

Finding purchase with his knees again, he pressed his body forward, reaching up in one more futile attempt. He felt as much as heard Eliot’s quick indrawn breath, his body stiffening underneath his. Quentin stilled, not sure what was wrong – maybe his elbow had dug too firmly into his ribs, maybe he was leaning on him too heavily, maybe… maybe… wait, was that…?

Something hard was pressing against him, and that something was Eliot, Eliot was hard and pressed against him, and for the first time he noticed just how close they were. Eliot was still laid back on the couch, Quentin lying completely on top of him and tucked neatly between his thighs, and for some reason Eliot’s cock was hard and positioned right against his. His breath caught in his throat as he felt his cock stir in response, but surely this was a mistake, surely Eliot wasn’t turned on by him.

His hands finding the couch either side of Eliot, he pushed himself up to look at him, pressing against Eliot in the process and it was an accident, sure, but it also felt really fucking good. His vision was still a little swimmy, and his eyes must still be playing tricks on him because Eliot’s were hooded, his brow slightly furrowed, his teeth digging into his lower lip and there was no way that he looked so… so _wanting_ because of him. This was Eliot – get-any-guy-he-wanted-Eliot, flirt-shamelessly-with-everyone-Eliot, star-of-your-erotic-dreams-Eliot.

He moved without thinking, pressing down against him and he couldn’t quite believe it when his eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting as a low moan escaped him and fuck, it was the hottest thing Quentin had ever heard. He moved again, desperate to hear that sound again, gasping as the sensation of rubbing himself against someone sent a tingle through him, groaning at the thought that that someone was Eliot and the sound of his answering moan. On his next forward motion Eliot finally moved, slowly rolling his hips up against his and _oh,_ he was definitely hard now, hard and aching and he pressed into him, desperate for friction, for closeness, for more. His arms gave out, buckling at the elbows and he dropped back on top of him, but that was fine because then there was no space left between them.

Eliot’s hands found his hips, paused there for a moment before slipping down to grab his ass, his fingers digging into him through his jeans as he pulled him down, rocking upwards in the same motion and, “Fuck,” Quentin moaned, turning his face into Eliot’s neck. He slipped his arms underneath his and held onto his shoulders, using them for purchase as he moved his body over Eliot’s, grinding slowly against him.

He’d never thought that this was a thing that could actually happen. Eliot had never made a move on him before, not a serious one, but all of that washed away by the fact that he was underneath him now, moaning in his ear with every movement, fingers digging into his ass to pull him closer. Nosing aside his shirt, grateful that the top few buttons were undone, Quentin touched his lips to Eliot’s throat, parting them to press open mouthed kisses along his neck and the guttural sound that left Eliot, and the way his hips jumped up into his, went straight to his cock.

“Q,” Eliot gasped, and he sounded _wrecked_.

He felt like he should lean back and look at him, wanted to see if he looked like he sounded but he couldn’t think past anything other than continuing to feel Eliot’s hardness against his own, separated by thin slacks and old denim. “Yeah?” he murmured against his skin.

Eliot’s hand both moved, one settling on his lower back while the other wrapped around the back of his neck and then he was being pulled back anyway, but he didn’t have time to open his eyes or protest before Eliot’s mouth was on his, parting his lips with his own. He moaned loudly and the sound was swallowed as Eliot kissed him hungrily and suddenly all of the previous languidness was gone, replace with urgency and desperation. Quentin freed his arms to twist his fingers into Eliot’s hair, keeping his mouth on his as they grinded against each other, tongues and teeth clashing messily. His free hand grabbed Eliot’s thigh, following it down to hold onto his hip, the two of them gripping and thrusting and moaning together frantically.

Eliot’s grip on him changed, his body stiffening as his hips moved in shorter jerks, his moan changing pitch into a sharp cry against Quentin’s lips, and it was only a few seconds later that Quentin felt his own pleasure start to peak. He buried his face against Eliot’s neck again, pressing down as hard as he could against Eliot, his fingers digging firmly into his thigh to keep him close. He groaned loudly as he came, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into his jeans, his whole body tensing momentarily before it left him all at once and he relaxed bonelessly on top of Eliot.

The only sound was their heavy breathing. Quentin didn’t want to move. “Oh,” he sighed, his head pressed against Eliot’s chest. He was exhausted, he was more relaxed than he’d been in his life, and his head had started swimming again. He was drunk on Eliot. He was still very drunk, period. But he felt… that had been… “Oh.”

“Mmm.” Eliot’s arms came around him loosely, his fingers threading into his hair. _We should find a bed_ , he thought sleepily. _We should clean up. We should..._

_We should…_

* * *

Awareness came to Quentin in stages. First was warmth, firm warmness wrapped around him, physical warmth but also a contentment that made him wriggle closer into it. Daylight fought against his closed eyelids, but he squeezed them tighter, not ready to relinquish his half-asleep state just yet. He could smell something familiar, a blend of stale alcohol and sweat and… something. Cologne? He breathed in deeply and realised the sour taste in his dry mouth, and with that unpleasantness the rest of it seemed to hit him all at once. His head pounded as though his brain was too large for his skull, his body ached all over, and there was an uncomfortable crustiness in his underwear.

The events of the night before seemed foggy, undefined, but he remembered snippets. He remembered dancing with Julia at the party the Illusionists had thrown. He remembered something about a dragon, something about a fire spell, something about… grass angels? He remembered…

_Eliot?_

He forced his eyes open, and felt his stomach do a flip when the warm something wrapped around him was, in fact, Eliot. They’d shifted in the night, both of them lying on their sides facing each other, Quentin’s hands pressed against his chest, Eliot’s arms wrapped loosely around him, their legs tangled together. His head was resting on Eliot’s upper arm, his hair in his face. Tilting his head back, he saw Eliot’s eyes were open and then his breath caught in his throat as he remembered. He remembered everything. The low, gasping moans, the clutching hands, the press of bodies moving together.

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” Eliot said, his hand trailing up his arm and then pushing his hair back from his face.

Quentin resisted the urge to turn his head into the touch, too embarrassed by the crunchy feeling of his underwear and the way that he couldn’t stop thinking about how that had happened. “Um, thanks,” he managed.

As awkward as he felt, not one single part of him wanted to move, and he felt a swell of surprise and delight when Eliot relaxed into the couch, his hand dropping to his waist, and he could feel the warm steadiness of his palm and the soft touch of his fingers through his thin t-shirt as they drifted idly over his side. He had no idea what time it was. The cottage seemed quiet, as though everyone was either still in bed or already out for the day, and his headache made it hard to tell how much sleep he’d had so that wasn’t going to be a helpful gauge. His back was to the room, but he hadn’t paid any attention to their surroundings last night to be able to tell if anything was different.

No one seemed to be around now, but that didn’t mean that no one had seen them. But what did that matter? They were still both fully clothed, the evidence of their activities last night invisible. And even if someone took something from the way they were twined together in sleep, what difference did it make?

It didn’t matter, since it didn’t mean anything.

Or maybe…

It didn’t matter, because Eliot didn’t seem to want to move, and he’d seen Eliot all over a whole variety of guys but he didn’t seem _cuddly_ with anyone but Margo, so did that mean something? And who cared who saw them together if it meant something?

But of course it didn’t mean anything. They’d both been drunk, so drunk, and it had just _happened_ , and it’s not like Eliot had shown any real interest in him. Endless flirting to make him squirm, sure, but no actual desire and no actual feelings.

Eliot’s groan brought him out of his thoughts, and he realised that he’d been staring at the dimple in Eliot’s chin for who knew how long. “Stop thinking so loudly,” he protested, shifting the arm under Quentin’s head to make him rock slightly.

Quentin bit back his smile at the way Eliot’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “You’re not psychic,” he pointed out.

“I don’t have to be.” He tugged him closer and Quentin went willingly, closing his eyes as Eliot rested his forehead against his. “Shh.”

Still not quite sure of where they stood but knowing that he found sleepy, cuddly Eliot adorable and that he’d probably kill him if he said so aloud, Quentin huffed a laugh, then caught his breath when he remembered how terrible his mouth tasted and his breath probably smelled. He held his breath until his chest felt tight, then turned his face into Eliot’s shoulder and let it out slowly, feeling stupid for not knowing how to breathe and stupid for caring and wishing he didn’t have the worst morning breath in the world so it wouldn’t be a problem in the first place.

Eliot’s fingers twisted in his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and Quentin found himself relaxing again. They lay like that for a few minutes, and Quentin was drifting back off to sleep when a loud rumbling sound reached his ears. When he realised what it was he laughed. “Hungry or something? Breakfast?”

He leaned back to look at Eliot, who removed his arm from around him to rub at his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger. “I can’t even think until I’ve washed the night off me,” he said, nudging Quentin with his elbow. “That’s it. Up. Go.”

Quentin stared at him, taken aback and feeling so incredibly stupid for being surprised. “Oh, um, okay.” Of course that’s all it was. So Eliot’s one night stands included a cuddle in the morning, that’s a thing he knew now and that was that. He just… he’d started to think that maybe it would be more than just that.

Untangling his legs, he twisted until he was in a position that he could sit up, not looking at Eliot as he found his way to his feet. Definitely not looking at Eliot as he stretched his arms above his head, baring an inch of skin between his shirt and his pants. If Eliot just wanted to pretend that nothing had ever happened, that was… fine. It was just fine. So fine.

He kept his eyes on the floor as Eliot walked over to the stairs, but when the footsteps stopped he looked up reluctantly. Eliot was standing at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the banister. His clothes were askew, his hair dishevelled, dark smudges under his eyes. And he was looking at him expectantly. “Are you coming or not?” He rolled his eyes. “And yes, that is the double entendre you think it is, so don’t you dare waste it.”

It wasn’t the snark, or the offer of more sex, that caused the smile to spread slowly across Quentin’s face, but the light in Eliot’s tired eyes, and the way the corner of his lip twitched upwards almost uncertainly. Like maybe there was something to this. Getting to his feet, he walked slowly over to the staircase, grinning further when Eliot’s hand settled on his shoulder and he practically pushed him up the stairs.


End file.
